


In Which Spot Conlon Hates Tuesdays

by cazei



Series: Newsies Works by Readeatsleeprepeat [1]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: A bit of swearing, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know how hospitals work, M/M, Protective Spot Conlon, Race is Italian and Irritated, Tuesdays suck, i think, race is a bit loopy, this is gay, this is interesting, this is short I'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 06:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10430850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cazei/pseuds/cazei
Summary: “Uh, is this Sean Conlon?” A meek voice squeaks out.“Yes, it is. Who is this?” Spot repeats.“I work for the Lower Manhattan Hospital, Sir, and you’re on an emergency contact list. Do you-““Who’s emergency contact?” Spot says.“Uh, an Antonio Higgins?”-Prompt: “I just got a call from the hospital, saying that I was your emergency contact, but we broke up two years ago why am I still y-oh my god aRE YOU OKAY????”





	

No matter how hard you may try to protest, Spot will be adamant on that fact that Tuesday’s are the worst day of the week. Their Monday 2.0, except all the excitement from the weekend has faded. You’re still a day away from the halfway point in a work/school week, and it’s called Tuesday. Not to mention that his sister was hurt at a rally on a Tuesday, his mother died on a Tuesday, and he was kicked out of his house on a Tuesday.

Spot despises Tuesdays.

This Tuesday, Tuesday the seventh, was bound to be no different. Spot was sure of it.

And, damn, was he right.

So when his phone rang at three in the morning, he let it ring out. No one, no one, was worth his time at three A.M. on a Tuesday of all days.

He rolled over on his bed, his eyes flickering shut, and his brain shutting down.

Then it rang again.

This time, he rolled over towards his nightstand, harshly unplugged his phone, and didn’t bother looking at caller ID as he slid-to-answer and growled, “Who is this?”

“Uh, is this Sean Conlon?” A meek voice squeaks out.

“Yes, it is. Who is this?” Spot repeats.

“I work for the Lower Manhattan Hospital, Sir, and you’re on an emergency contact list. Do you-“

“Who’s emergency contact?” Spot says. None of his friends would put him as theirs, and this voice made it seem like he was the last or only one on this person's list.

“Uh, an Antonio Higgins?” The voice says, pronouncing the syllables wrong. ~~They broke up on a Tuesday.~~

“What?” Spot says. “I’m-I’m his contact?”

“The only one listed, it seems,” The voice confirms. “Do…Can we be expecting you? It seems the doctor needs someone here.”

Spot buried his head i his hands, his phone between his cheek and shoulder.

“I-“ Spot says, ready to say that he couldn’t. Instead, Spot’s own vocal cords betray him. “Yes, I’ll be there.”

Spot then spends the next two minutes off the phone, repeatedly hitting his own head with a pillow. He can’t go see Race. Not now, not two years after they broke up.

He doesn’t even remember the reason why they broke up. The friend-to-lovers of many years had a fight, but this time, neither walked back.

That’s when Spot realizes that Race is in the hospital. They might not be on good terms, but they were friends once, best friends, and he can’t let him be at a hospital for god-knows-what by himself.

Spot gets dressed silently, sliding out of his apartment without his roommate, Mush, notices. He wouldn’t anyways; Spot thinks he heard Blink earlier, and not in the most friendly way.

Spot manages to get a cab, at three thirty in the morning, to the Lower Manhattan hospital. It’ll cost him, but he already told the receptionist that he was going. He can’t let Race down again.

The hospital is lit brightly, looking sterile and white on the corner of the street. Spot takes a deep breath and pushes the doors open.

-

He’s fine, the receptionist told him. Antonio had gotten into a fight and was brought here by a few locals. He needed stitches, some medicine, and to put a broken arm in a cast, but he’ll be alright.

The receptionist also tells him that Race is a bit high on meds, and he may be a bit loopy.

Spot sits, alone in the waiting room, tapping his foot on the floor until four. Eventually, a nurse comes to take him to Race, and he stands.

Race is lying with his eyes closed against a hospital cot, and a doctor is looking over him.

The doctor speaks when Spot walks in the room.

“Are you here to take him home?” The doctor says. His eyes are kind.

Spot decides to agree, “Yes, I am. How is he?”

“Out of it,” The doctor answers. “And sore. He’ll be sore and bruised for a few days, and his arm will take a few weeks to heal, but he’ll be alright.”

Spot takes a step towards Race, finally seeing him in the overhead lights. His face is bruised, and blood dries on his lip. His neck has a purple, spotted patchwork of bruises on them, as do his arms and legs. Spot cannot see his torso, but he assumes it’s the same. Race’s left arm is in a red cast as well. He looks as if he’s fast asleep, and Spot’s heart clenches.

As do his fists. “Who did this? Do you know what happened?”

The doctor sighs. “He said the wrong thing, apparently. A group of guys beat him up for it and left him in an alley.”

Spot tries not to think about it.

“You’re both cleared to go. Wake him as soon as you can,” the doctor says, leaving the room.

Spot sighs and stares at Race for a few second. Then, he slowly shakes his arm. Race blinks up at him.

“Wha’?” He asks, his voice slurred.

“C’mon, Higgins. We’re leaving,” Spot says, his voice is tight.

“Spot?” Race squints at him. “Wha’re you doin’ ‘ere?”

“Taking you home,” Spot says, ushering Race into a sitting position.

“Why?” Race tilts his head, his eyes filled with childlike curiosity.

“Because, apparently, no one else can.”

“I don’ have my key, Spotty. I think I got them's stolen from me!” Race says, his voice a loud gasp.

“Shh, Race,” Spot shushes the smaller Italian. “It’s really early, and you’re being loud.”

Race tries again, his voice a dramatic stage whisper, “Spot, I got my keys stolen!”

Spot rolls his eyes. “I’ll just take you to Jack’s or something. They’ll take you to your complex to get a new key tomorrow.”

“But, Spottttt,” Race whines. “My keys are gone.”

Spot blinks at him. “So you’ve said. On your feet, now. We have a cab to hail.”

They stumble from the building; Spot’s stomach is doing the same motions as their childish, bumpy steps. He tells himself to not think about it. Soon, Race will be with Jack and David, and Spot can go home. Race won’t even remember him getting him!

Then, they’re in a cab, and the second Spot has Race sit down, he’s lying his head on the Brooklyn boy’s shoulder, fast asleep.

“Where to?” The cabbie asks.

Spot tells the man his address.

-

Race snorts when he wakes up, a pig-like sound which shouldn’t make Spot feel the way it does; almost like nothing changed. Except it has because that Tuesday has come and gone. As soon as Race sobers, this Tuesday will too, and Race will probably punch him. He knows he could never punch back. Not to Race. Never to Race.

“Come on, Higgins,” Spot says when the cab stops, and it’s time for them to get out. "Almost there.”

“Ta' Jack?” Race asks, clutching onto Spot’s arm as if it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“Sure,” Spot hums, and pulls them out of the cab and onto the street.

-

It’s 5:14 A.M. in a Brooklyn apartment and Spot dumps Race into his bed before taking the couch.

It’s 5:17 A.M. on Tuesday the seventh, and Race is in Brooklyn, sleeping in Spot’s bed.

It’s 5:19 A.M. when Spot falls asleep to the noises of his city.

-

Spot is awoken the next morning to a rather strange series of noises.

The first being a crash, the second a stream of swears and curses, and the third is another, softer crash.

When Spot processes the words to be in Italian, and not English, he’s on his feet in an instant.

He rushes across his small apartment and only pauses to peer into his own bedroom door. A familiar figure is tangled in his comforter, blinking confusedly on the ground.

Race narrows his eyes at him. “What the hell, Conlon?”

“I see your medication has worn off, Higgins,” Spot says dryly, his voice hiding the rush of emotion he’s feeling.

“Medica-” Race looks at his arm. “Oh, right.”

“What happened?” Spot asks, letting his curiosity get the best of him.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Race says quietly, not angerly.

The tension in the room is thick, and Spot doesn’t think he can breathe.

“Why am I here?” Race asks. “Why you of all people?”

Spot grins fakely, and he belatedly realizes Race can tell that it’s fake. “Apparently, I’m your only emergency contact, princess.”

Race doesn’t look surprised. “Oh.”

Fate has decided that it’s Spot’s turn to be confused. “Did you not change it,” Race looks away, Spot clears his throat and continues., "After?”

“”Spose not,” Race says. “I’ll change it soon, don’t worry.”

Spot doesn’t respond to that. Instead, he says, “I’ll make toast.”

-

“Why are you being so nice?” Race asks, chewing on toast later.

Up until now, they have been sitting at the table in silence.

“You’re hurt. Us fighting won’t help. I figured we could have a truce for once.”

Race rolls his eyes, but there’s something hidden in the gesture. They go back to eating their breakfasts in silence.

-

Race stands behind Spot as he washes their dishes.

“Take me home,” Race demands.

Spot dries his hands on a cloth, and, knowing better than to argue, nods. “Okay.”

Race is annoyed at his lack of response and turns quickly, supposedly to get his shoes.

Instead, the quick moment pulls at his stitches, and he hisses and leans against the fridge. Spot is in his eyes at an instant, scanning him for injury.

“I’m fine,” Race bites.

“You look fine,” Spot says.

Race, unliking how he likes their close proximity, tries to shove Spot off of him. Spot catches his cast, causing their eyes to meet.

Slowly, unsure, they both lean in.  
And then spring apart just as quickly.

“What was that?” Race asks.

Spot spoke at the same time: “We can’t, Race.”

“Why not?” Race surprises them both by saying.

“We didn’t work, Race. I can’t lose you again.”

Race shakes his head, still backed against the fridge.

“Don’t you want to try?”

-

Later, in the middle of sloppy kisses to make up for lost time, Spot says, “I guess you can leave me as your emergency contact.”

Race sighs. “I guess I can.”

Maybe all Tuesday’s aren’t so bad, only most.

Race kisses his lips lightly, breathily.

Yeah, Spot thinks. Only most.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment, please! Even if it's one word, I thrive on comments!


End file.
